


The Not So Wild Ones

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 03:19:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3920992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: I love your writing! If you don't mind, could you do a Root x Shaw fic of them being all domestic and kind of freaking the other team members out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Not So Wild Ones

Harold Finch stands at his desk, long tan trench coat tucked around him tightly and fedora over his spiky hair, while he waits for his laptop to turn on. It emits a dim, blue glow in the mostly dark space, and the whizzing sound of the computer coming to life is deafening in the silence. Looking around, he walks over to the far wall, footsteps echoing off the tiled walls until he comes to a large lever, and he pulls it down. The spitting hiss of electricity whirs in the air, and yellow lights blink to life, bathing the subway terminal warmly.

"You're here early."

Harold turns, his pupils dilate slightly, not hearing the man behind him enter the room. A small, half-smile twitches in the corner of Harold's mouth, and his eyes soften amiably.

"There is much to be done, Mr. Reese. What brings you here?" Harold walks back towards the laptop with his uneven gate, eyes scanning the screen as it comes to sorts.

"Just thought I'd stop by before work," he tosses out casually, but Harold gives him a skeptical look. "...And pick up a number while I'm at it," he continues slowly, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but swearing it was for a good cause.

"If you keep inserting yourself into cases not placed on your desk, Detective Riley may be out a job," Harold warns, watching his computer screen intently, yet nothing emerges.

"I think it would be fun." A voice trails from somewhere out of sight, faint but growing as two sets of footsteps echo into the terminal.

"I don't know, Root."

* * *

 

"You  _can't_  tell me it doesn't sound like a good time."

"I'm not saying that."

"Will you  _think_  about it, Sam?... Please?"

The footsteps stop, booming volume turned suddenly mute, and the sound of a sigh meets Harold's ears.

"Fine."

The footsteps pick up once more, and a moment later, two women walk into the room- a tall brunette with eyes glowing like she's won the lottery, and a smaller, dark haired woman with an indifferent stare. Seeing Harold's intrigued look, her upper lip pulls to a snarl.

"Did She give you a mission?" Harold asks in a voice of awe and the slightest envy. Root had always seemed closer to his own creation.

Root's smile widens and her hair cascades behind her shoulder with a slight flip. "No." The answer is short and cryptic, a code that her eyes pleasantly dare Harold to unlock. Knowing that look, he's hesitant, but curiosity keeps him trying.

From the desk, the computer utters a tone, signaling the income of something important- something vital. His eyes linger on the two for another fleeting second, sensing something off in both of their behaviors. Turning his face away, he gives his head a slight shake to clear his mind.

A strand of numbers sits on his computer, zeros like eyes boring into him, waiting for help. Quickly, he types it into a program, and a face appears. His irises are stormy gray, thick, bruised circles under sunken eyes, and long eyelashes encase them, sending sliver lines down their bloodshot whites. His nose is thin and narrow, the bridge crooked at the center hinting at a childhood break, and it slides right into pale, chapped lips. Shaggy, unkept hair slithers down his face, wrapping itself in snake-like coils over his cheekbones. The man stands in front of a white wall with black height markers, bright orange shirt looking out of place in the din of the photo. He holds a white plaque in his bony hands. On it is the number, and a name: Tad Miller.

 

"So, our guy's in the big house?" Harold is surprised to hear Root's familiar voice so far off.  _When's the last time she hasn't read over my shoulder?_  He couldn't remember.  _Perhaps when she was confined in the library._  Peering over with suspicious eyes, a stunned flame sparks within them, and he pauses, answer lodged in his throat.

Root has her arms draped over Sameen Shaw's shoulders, letting them intertwine together in front of Shaw's abdomen, nothing but delicate fingers peeking out from under a deep black jacket. Her cheek rests on the side of Shaw's temple, and there is an unmistakable bliss radiating from her. But that isn't what caught Harold off guard, he'd always classified her as the touching type- especially with Shaw. No, what took the wind from his lungs  _was_  Shaw.

Shaw, the hardened, battle clad sociopath. Shaw, the tough as nails marksman that would rather take a bullet than a hug. Shaw, the deadly woman that would snap a neck at being treated so domestically. Doing nothing.

She seems almost compliant with this public display, muscles not coiled, stance not yearning to be unleashed. Her hands hold simply in her pockets, not ripping herself away or gripped to Root's wrist, threatening to break it if she doesn't release her instantly. Even her eyes are uncharacteristically calm in the situation, flickering with a momentary rush of what Harold can only place as content each time Root breathes out, breath dancing with a loose strand of Shaw's hair.

Harold swallows a lump of unease, eyes sliding over to John cautiously. A man usually unfazed by any surprise, Harold can see the full blown expression of confusion on his face, eyes trying to pry out the truth from the lie before him.  _Only it isn't a lie- it can't be- why would it be?_  A gear clicks into place, and Harold feels one small piece of Root's elaborate code deciphered.

John's eyes flicker to Harold, and a small smirk appears on John's face. For the first time, Harold realizes what his own countenance must entail.  _If John's usually cool complexion is this open, mine must look like a lamb at the abattoir._

Harold's gaze falls back on the women, trailing down to Shaw. Shaw, seeing his bewildered stare, narrows her eyes, letting them sear his skin with a roaring fire of fury and annoyance. He gives a small cough, trying to pull himself from the awkward silence.

"Uh, ah no, no he- he isn't," Harold fumbles, forcing his eyes back to Root, all the while feeling the lasers in Shaw's eyes tear his skin. Root gives him a knowing- call it smug- smile, and he continues slowly, like he's a new charmer to a wild cobra. "Miller escaped two hours ago. Guards were not alerted of the break out until he was already over the wall, apparently the electronic alarm system malfunctioned."

"How convenient," Shaw says in a level tone, although Harold can feel spite in it directed straight at him. He gives a nearly microscopic wince.

"Yes, well, it is safe to say that there will be police after him-"

"Which would make Lionel and I the perfect candidates," John finishes, stepping forward. Harold gives his head a slight shake.

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Reese. The police will be the last people he turns to; he'll avoid federal agents at all costs."

"So that leaves us," Root prompts, excitement coursing through her words as she straightens herself up, arms dropping away from Shaw as she steps forward.

"Yes." He turns back to the computer, typing rapidly as his eyes dart from left to right, face flashing from white to blue and back as the different tabs pop onto the screen. "His last known location was a train station three blocks away from East Jersey Prison, his monitor ankle bracelet powered down after that."

"What's in the area, Finch?" John asks, this mysterious convict piquing his interest. Harold pulls up a map of the area, then zooms in on the coordinates.

"Northern Corridor Train Station..." His fingers are lightning as they dance skillfully over the keys. "... Last train left ten minutes ago."

"Only takes an hour to get to New York on that train, Harry," Root tells him, coming over to lean her arms against the desk. "And a busy train station is an easy place to get lost in."

"Well,  _somebody_  found him," Shaw replies, her usual fed-up tone missing in action.  _What on Earth is going on with these two?_

"They won't be the only ones," Root replies in a doting fashion, pushing herself away from the desk. "What do you say to spending the weekend with a criminal?"

A small smirk plays in the corner of Shaw's mouth. "When don't I?"

Harold's brow furrows, and he looks to Root for an explanation. Her cheeks are flushed, pink flowers blooming on them, and she swallows back a smile. For a drawn out minute, Harold watches Root watch Shaw, then Root clears her throat and the trance breaks.

"Let's go," Root says with a thrill in her words, walking over to Shaw. As they turn to go, John calls out, stopping them.

"Are you sure you don't want me down there?" He asks. Root looks back over her shoulder, a coy smile toying with her features. She lets it fall into a sympathetic pout, although her eyes gleam with delight.

"Sorry, John," she tells him with a shrug, then the two begin out once more. "We'll send you a post card."

Their footsteps linger down the abandoned pathways, and finally they are gone. The men wait a moment longer, breath held for any chance of a third presence, then sigh.

Harold turns to John, looking at him with eyes wide behind his thick glasses. His lip is pulled into a contemplating slant.

"Was it just me, or did Ms. Shaw seem remarkably tame?"

John gives Harold a serious face, but his eyes have their signature flickering twinkle before a humored response. "Did Root hit her with the tranquilizer again?"

Harold narrows his eyes, lips pressed together in distaste. "It was remarkably odd..." He says at last, annoyed glare giving way to pondering eyes. "Do you think something is wrong?"

"Oh, come on, Finch," John responds with a playful tone, "maybe she's finally given in to Root's pursuit."

"I highly doubt it," Harold remarks, although he isn't quite sure. He can tell from the crinkling of John's nose and the chuckling smile on his face that he believes the prior idea was mere horseplay. However, Harold rolls the idea around in his mind, letting each detail fall like marbles back and forth in his brain.  _The cryptic look on Root's face, Shaw's normalcy, and that remark at the end, 'When don't I?'_  Harold weighs the idea of Root being that criminal, but dismisses it with a concentrated frown, not wanting to think of what a weekend with the two would entail.  _Guns and bodies and tazers._  But in what context, he did not want to delve.

_____\ If Your Number's Up /_____

Root and Shaw had been driving for only four minutes when they could sense someone tailing them. Their black, Honda Accord was nothing extravagant- just what they needed to stay hidden in the throng of cars racing down the highway. Like beetles, each car and truck had its own colored shell as it scuttled to a destination. Their own little bug was nothing more than ordinary, yet somehow a larger, deep gray beetle was pursuing them, ready to extend its pinchers and draw them in.

"It's definitely the boys," Root tells Shaw will an air of certainty as she checks back once more. Shaw, from the driver's seat, peers quickly in the rearview mirror, wanting to see them herself. She gets a fleeting glance at dark, salt and pepper hair and a suit.

"You sure?" Shaw asks, fingers curling around the steering wheel. If it isn't them, she's prepared to run them off the road, and her nerves tingle with anticipation, the adrenaline already leaking into her bloodstream. From the corner of Shaw's eye, she sees Root give her a slant-eyed look.

"What part of  _definitely_  don't you understand, Sweetie?" Root asks, affection dripping from her every word. She looks Shaw up and down, and Shaw rolls her eyes.

"What are they tailing us for?" Shaw asks aloud, frustration in her voice as she stares out the windshield. "Miller isn't going to trust us with police in the area. Even  _if_  John has a longer rap-sheet than Bill Gibbons's facial hair."

Root lets out a light laugh, eyes lit warmly as she watches Shaw's profile. Shaw can sense the stare, and shoots a quick glance over. Seeing the look in Root's eyes, she presses her lips together, keeping the smile from pulling onto her face.

"What?" She asks.

Root folds her arms across each other on the center console, leaning in towards Shaw, and Shaw's skin prickles at the close proximity. "I love your comparisons," Root coos, breath trailing across Shaw's neck. Shaw's mouth parts, lips beginning to form a word but she stops, closing it and shaking her head slightly, the smile finally piercing through at the corner of her mouth. She checks the car door mirror for a distraction, then forces her eyes forward, all the while her mind is elsewhere- Root's breath holding her tight; eyes pulling at her clothes.

A few seconds tick by, and Root shifts, coffee eyes switching to a new topic.

"Have you thought about it?" Root asks casually, hand coming to Shaw's face as she tucks a strand of hair behind Shaw's ear. Her hand lingers there, fingers tracing around the bottom of her ear.

"Thought about what?" Shaw counters, trying to match the even tone, but Root can hear the small jump in her words at the touch and smiles.

"What I said earlier," Root replies, letting her fingers drop down to Shaw's jawline; she feels Shaw swallow under the light touch of her fingertips.

"I haven't had much  _time_  to think about it," Shaw tells her, throat tightening and breath feeling shallower than normal with Root so close. She tries to ignore the electric sensation in vain. "It's surprisingly hard to think with you watching me."

Root's nose crinkles, and she slides her fingers gracefully down Shaw's neck before letting it drift back to the console.

Shaw takes a slight left, pulling the car away from the traffic and down a winding turnpike, trees replacing large skyscrapers and blue sky pushing away the city's fog. Not a moment later, Shaw sees that same, dark grey vehicle behind them in the rearview mirror. Root looks back over her shoulder, and her hand slips easily onto Shaw's leg. She can see John's eyebrow pulled in question, and Lionel's forehead creased, beady eyes squinted in concentration as his neck cranes to see within their vehicle.

"Do you think  _they_  know?" Shaw asks, and Root turns back to face her, eyes looking Shaw up and down. She gives a small, short chuckle, then brings her hand to Shaw's. At first, Shaw keeps it at the steering wheel, but finally drops the fight, and Root slips her fingers between Shaw's.

"They do  _now_ ," she says with wicked fun, waving their intertwined hands before the rear windshield, more than open for Reese and Fusco to view. Shaw pulls her hand away, then shoves Root with a mixture of play and annoyance.

"Cut it out," Shaw seethes, putting her hand firmly back on the wheel. Root gives her a condescending look.

"They'll know anyway at  _some_  point," Root points out, then rests her head on Shaw's shoulder. "It's only a matter of time," she yawns. Shaw purses her lips.

"Some point doesn't  _have_  to be  _now_ ," Shaw grumbles silently, but drops the subject.

Shaw's phone rings in her earwig, and she answers.

"Banana Nut Crunch driving you nutso, or what?" The good-humored voice of Detective Lionel Fusco reaches her ear.

"Not much of your concern, is it?" She responds, words lightly coated in ice.

"All I know is, if anyone  _else_  pulled her little stunts you'd have their head on a stick."

"Jealous?" Root asks smugly, finding their frequency with little difficulty. From the other end of the line, they hear him scoff, then the rustling of ice in a fast-food cup.

"Concerned," he replies with a joking air. "Keep messin' with her like that and she might crash."

Root laughs, eyes sparkling proudly. "Just wait til we get to a red light," she responds, and Shaw's ears instantly redden. Root can hear the sound of coughing, and the ice shaking wildly in the cup.

"What is it?" John's voice comes through Lionel's earpiece, but the flabbergasted sputtering continues. From up ahead, an intersection comes into view, green sphere of light flickering to yellow as they approach.

"Speaking of the Devil," Root says, a coy smirk spreading across her face. Shaw slows behind a blue minivan and feels a jump in her chest. Root looks over at Shaw, eyes playful and intense. "We're just in time."

_____\ We'll Find You /_____

"What is today, Scare Your Co-Workers Friday?" Lionel asks through the ear wig, flustered beyond belief. The car ride he'd seen through the back window of the women's car seemed like a joke- at first.  _It was amusing_ , he recalls, picking through the scene once more. Seeing Root lean in, scoot her arms closer on the center console; he could envision the big, Bambi eyes she must've been staring Shaw down with.  _Poor sap is head over heels_ , he mused. Then, Root moved her hand in towards Shaw's face, and he thought she was done for. But through the windshield, Lionel could see no form of retaliation.  _And not to mention the red light._ His pupils ditate at the recollection, and he blinks them roughly a few times, straining to bring his mind back on track.

" _No_ ," Root replies in a condescending tone. "It's Catch-a- _Convict_  Friday. Didn't you get the memo?"

"Funny," he retorts with sarcasm, peering over to John at his side. Even he seems to be distant, eyes re-watching internal footage from the car ride, trying to piece it together.

From three yards ahead, Root and Shaw step out of their small vehicle, heading towards the train terminal. Root walks close at Shaw's side, hand brushing against Shaw's hip every so often. Shaw's ears are still a deeper shade of pink, the heat slowly draining away. She peers over at Root from the corner of her eye, sees Root looking at her, and averts her gaze quickly. A moment later, she feels a warm hand in hers.

"What are you thinking about?" Root asks, leaning in towards Shaw as they maneuver between luggage carts and families.

"You," Shaw replies, mind only half focused as she searches for Miller's face in the crowd. She can feel Root's fingers tighten on her hand, and the jump of her pulse. Shaw's mind finally files through, and she back pedals. "What you said-  _did_ ," she clarifies, and a sigh escapes Root's lips. Shaw looks up at her, and sees a quaint smile on her face.

"There's nothing wrong with a little  _fun_  at a red light." Shaw closes her eyes, fighting off the urge to growl. Her free hand clenches into a tight fist.

"In front of the  _guys_ ," she hisses with a flame lashing in her voice.

"Tell me about it," Reese replies with mock annoyance, although the traces of humor linger within his words. "You're freaking us out." Root's laugh is a melody, and Shaw's heartbeat spikes out of control at the tune.

"What's goin' on with you two anyway?" Fusco cuts in, curiosity mingling with seriousness. Root and Shaw share a glance; Root's optimistic and Shaw's hostile, daring Root to even think about mentioning a thing. "Hello?"

"Give them a minute, Lionel," Reese responds with extended patience. "They're probably a little...  _busy_."

The way the smugness curls around that last word rubs Shaw's fur all the wrong way. "With the ? _mission_ ," she spits.

"Whatever you want to call her, Shaw," Reese responds off-handedly, and Shaw's cheeks redden with anger. She can feel the steam billowing from her ears and into the air.

"Do you  _see_  now?" Shaw snarls between gritted teeth, and Root narrows her eyes playfully. They stop just behind a thick yellow line as a large, glossy train chugs into the station. Thick smoke billows from the smoke stack, and the wheels turn in mesmerizing circles. Gradually, the train slows to a stop, train cars rattling the windows filled with children's hands and excited eyes.

Root takes a step forward, scanning each window as they scuttle by, and Shaw follows up behind her, aggression of before mostly forgotten. She encases Root around the waist with her arms, tilting her chin up slightly to rest it on Root's shoulder. Root brings her hand to Shaw's, letting her fingers dance lightly over Shaw's as her heart beats wildly in her chest. She struggles to keep a level smile, and her eyes scream in pleasure. It only gets worse when Shaw turns her head to the side, letting her chilly nose press against the crook of Root's neck. Shaw breathes her in, and a microscopic smile takes her features, flooding her flustered muscles and loosening them up.

"Look alive, Sam," Root tells her with a flutter in her voice, smile finally breaking out on her smooth features. "We've got a convict to catch."

Shaw stays stationary a moment as if the words never touched her, but once she hears the final hiss of breaks and the sigh of the engine, she releases her hold, coming to stand beside Root with watchful eyes.

Standing shoulder to shoulder, angled slightly away from one another, they scan the train cars, analyzing each passenger that steps onto the terminal. One by one, children, adults, and the elderly pour out of each cart, rushing to family and friends awaiting them. Soon, the station becomes a mob scene, and both strain to pick a single face out in the crowd.

"Think about it yet?" Root asks, humor rumbling in her voice as she scans the throng, not looking back in Shaw's direction. Shaw answers in the same, over-the-shoulder manner.

"Is annoyance you're new torture technique?" Shaw quips back.

"I'm nothing if not persistent," Root counters, grin growing wider with each second, anticipation coursing through her veins. "So tell me why you're avoiding this."

Shaw licks her lip, stalling for time as she tries to find a reason. Apprehension seems to be the only thing in her mind, but why?  _I'm not afraid, obviously_ , she thinks to herself, straining to keep her focus on the mission.  _But I'm not too sure of it. Why? Why not?_

"Dunno," she answers at last, honest sigh escaping her lips.

"Then go with me," Root insists, taking a moment to peer over at Shaw.

"Go where?" Lionel's voice patches through to them. "We all going out later?"

Root takes in a breath, ready to tell him her plans, but she feels an instant, sharp pain in her wrist. Looking down, she sees Shaw's hand clamped there, fingernails digging into her pressure point. Root laughs lightly in pain, looking at the back of Shaw's head and practically seeing the steam.

"If  _you_  won't go, I'll  _have_  to tell him," Root tells Shaw in a quiet voice riddled with black mail and wrapped in a threat. "I'd like to go with  _someone_."

Root can feel Shaw prickling at her side, and knows she's hit her mark.

" _Fine_ ," Shaw seethes, tearing her hand away. Root rubs at her wrist, smile triumphant. "I'll go." Root pushes her hair over her shoulder, heart vibrating in her chest, making every nerve tingle in excitement.

"Sorry, detective," Root tells him with mock sympathy. Her nose crinkles. "It's private."

She can hear him grumbling on the line, telling John something of fluster, and John's voice responding with its own stupefied air.

"I found our guy," Shaw states, and Root instantly snaps back to seriousness, turning on her heel to peer in the direction Shaw's looking. After focusing in, Root sees a hollowed man with shaggy hair and twitchy fingers. His steely owl eyes pry at each person in the station, picking out exits and easy outs. His eyes pan around the room, landing on Shaw. His gaze is cold, dropping the air fifteen degrees, and an icy gear clicks into place within them. A sneer pulls on his chapped lip, and he turns swiftly, pushing an elderly woman to the ground as he sprints off.

Root and Shaw share mixed looks before peering back in their number's direction.

They run.

Miller is a wrecking ball, demolishing everything in his path and leaving a trail of rubble in his wake. Shaw hurtles over an upturned luggage cart, and Root weaves between disgruntled civilians as they chase the man down. He pushes past a security guard, breaking into the gate of a madman as he dives towards the parking lot.

After him they dash.  _How easy it would be to take out a kneecap,_  Shaw thinks wistfully, but restrains, knowing the utter pandemonium that would await them.  _And not to mention a condescending chat with Harold._

From just ahead, a familiar, dark grey car darts out from its spot, nailing Miller in the side. He cries out in pain, dropping to the ground and clutching his ribs. His teeth gnash and his eyes hold shut.

Root and Shaw jog up to him just as John opens the driver side door.

"Watch it! This is federal property," Fusco fumes, clambering out of the large SUV. Reese gives him a bored look. Lionel looks past him with disgruntled eyes, and his gaze lands on the women. His eyes open slightly, all dismay ripped away and replaced by shock. Slowly, the gears turn, mixing in his detective's intuition within the bewilderment. Shaw watches him, watches his eyes try to sort the two of them out, and casts her head away, shoulders tensing. However, with the touch of Root's hand on her shoulders, they easily unwind.

Miller, pain bringing hot red into his gray eyes, tries to push himself away from the group. He shuffles back, legs kicking as he turns to a crawling position. Shaw brings a boot to the back of his calf, pressing down hard before dragging her extended foot back. He drops to his stomach, arms scrambling like the legs of an upturned bug.

"Zip ties?" Root asks, and Shaw gives her a ghost of a smirk. She grabs two thick, black ones from her back pocket, handing them over.

"Don't have  _too_  much fun," Shaw tells her, and Root grins. Kneeling down, she takes hold of Miller's arms firmly, pulling them behind his back.

"Don't  _worry_ , Sam," Root replies suggestively, eyes bright and mouth fidgeting with a poorly concealed smile. "I'll save all the fun for later."

Behind her, Shaw can hear Lionel's thick, sputtering cough. " _What?!_ "


End file.
